


Sacred Notes

by panda_shi



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Fuckbuddies, M/M, Post-Mission, Sexual Content, Ten Years Later Verse (Katekyou Hitman Reborn!), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23713861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panda_shi/pseuds/panda_shi
Summary: Yamamoto hated solo-assignments. He hated waiting.
Relationships: Gokudera Hayato/Yamamoto Takeshi
Kudos: 18





	Sacred Notes

**Author's Note:**

> **Reposting. Written in 2008. Minor edits made.**
> 
> Any misspellings or wrong grammar is unintentional. I am my own beta. I could have missed some stuff. 
> 
> Written for the 8059challenge community, challenge #19.

If there was one thing Yamamoto hated about the job, it was the solo assignments. Solo assignments were usually diplomatic talks, meetings, representing the Vongola in front of another famiglia and sometimes just collecting money; standard mafia business. Assassinations or clean-ups were - as a rule after many accidents - to be done in pairs, never solo. No matter how hard Tsuna stood for the no-killing belief within the Vongola famiglia, it was a decision Tsuna had to make sometimes no matter how hard he tried to resist it.

And it was fine to Yamamoto. They weren't children anymore, they weren't innocent. Even before things became officially-official, their innocence were long gone. The ring battle many, many years ago ensured that.

But no, it wasn't about innocence lost, or how their dreams took a complete one-eighty after accepting the weight and name of the Vongola besides their own. It wasn't even the job itself; some things had to be done. It's just that the solo assignments was the one thing that kept Yamamoto on edge, that drove him mad in the dark corners of his mind, corners that only existed in the mind of a hitman.

Because with solo assignments came the task of waiting.

Yamamoto hated waiting for anyone in the family.

He could have just turned around, gone to bed like everyone else, blindly trusting the idea that whoever was out would return with the job done, that nothing went wrong. With others - those who didn't combust in a heartbeat - it wouldn't have been that difficult. But that cold winter night, it wasn't just anyone who was out.

Gokudera wasn't 'home' yet.

Yamamoto knew what the assignment was, knew it was basically a simple transaction and monetary transfer, nothing more. And yet, as usual, he stayed up, sitting by Gokudera's piano, watching minutes tick by while everyone slept. The base was eerily quiet, the paintings and classical baroque decor casting shadows over the walls and furniture. He didn't keep the light on, preferring the moonlight penetrating the ceiling high glass windows. From his position, missing Gokudera was impossible. Gokudera always used the back entrance and sometimes - when he wasn't too gravely injured - would sit and play the piano for a while.

No one would wake up then, no one would ask either.

It was a mutual understanding between them.

Nod, accept, don't ask; it's just the way things were and a way of showing respect to the other person who may have already lost another part of their being in an assignment.

Yamamoto knew that with Gokudera, it was like a series of toppling dominoes.

The echoing sound of the large mounted clock lulled him to sleep, his body remaining in its sitting position on the piano bench, chin against a palm. It was only the sound of sluggish footsteps and the sound of the back door clicking shut that managed to filter through Yamamoto's sleep-deprived mind. He shifted, turning heavy lidded eyes towards the clock; a little before four AM it read.

The smell of blood however permeated his mind long enough for him to look up to find his brother, his family member, his friend, standing before him, hair no longer silver but instead crusted in red and green eyes just a tad bit manic.

"Get off my piano, asshole," Gokudera croaked, voice raspy, abused, barely audible.

"Welcome back," Yamamoto quipped instead, not blinking at the sight before him. He knew what it felt like to be in Gokudera's current position: tired, blinded, numb and most of all sad.

"What time is it?"

"Almost four," Yamamoto answered, mechanically, not wanting to show sympathy; Gokudera hated sympathy.

"Hnn. Get up," Gokudera demanded and Yamamoto listened, slowly raising himself from the bench, knowing what to expect. "I need -"

"I understand." Yamamoto said softly, watching as Gokudera's weight sagged against the piano bench, sprawled, back and elbows carelessly hitting the keys. Yamamoto fought the twitch as the irregularly rapped notes echoed in the main room, but said nothing.

It was always silence from his side even as he slowly lowered himself to his knees and mechanically proceeded to undo the buckles and weapon holsters from around Gokudera's waist and thighs. He got rid of the pants, gentle and mindful to any possible injury. This was not new to him, this act he was about to play out.

"Move it," Gokudera hissed.

Yamamoto replied with his silence, instead taking the hard and slender cock in to his mouth and closing his eyes, turning deaf ears to the man as he started to suck on the weeping length. He ignored the cries, ignored the sobs and the litany of apologies. He ignored the hand that stank of gunpowder that gripped his hair in a vice, pushing his head down til he had his nose buried in soft flesh and wisps of hair. He didn't blink when Gokudera yanked his head up and mashed their lips together. He invested a lot of effort to ignore the tangy taste of blood in Gokudera's mouth, biting back the traitorous moan from escaping his lips when slender and pale fingers snaked down his sweatpants to forcefully stroke him, before yanking the fabric down till he was bare. He was roughly shoved against the piano bench, back hitting the keys as that loud and terrifying irregular sound - the sacred notes of a desperate and insane man - filled the room.

"Gokudera, carefu-"

"Shut up!" Gokudera hissed, eyes glinting with something that wasn't quite 'okay' by normal standards.

And Yamamoto did shut up. He watched as Gokudera straddled his lap, his own fingers digging against the sides of the open piano lid, as the slighter man all but swallowed his cock, bloody and bruised body riding him without a care in the world. In those blissful few minutes, Yamamoto watched as Gokudera's manic face melted back to something purely human, coated with pleasure as he moved his body against his hard cock, feeling nothing but what was happening then and there. The blood didn't matter, the torn clothes didn't matter, nor did the bruises against the milky complexion. Yamamoto wondered if he was just as manically-insane as Gokudera to find red so good on the pale man. He wondered if he was even sane at all.

The banging of the piano keys continued till Yamamoto felt his release creep up towards him in a hiss and Gokudera's cry drown out by the sudden hard press of his bloodied fingers against the piano keys. Then it was just blissful silence, with Gokudera's soft cries being muffled against his broad shoulder.

They didn't move, not till the first rays of the sun started to filter through the window did Gokudera shift. By then, Yamamoto had the unbecoming urge to hurl from the stench of blood that were dominating his senses. Gokudera's careless shifting and warm semen hitting his lap and knees were the only the things Yamamoto dared to look at. He didn't look at Gokudera, he didn't want to. He didn't want to see the breaking man, not even after Gokudera all but sagged against him in exhaustion as he maneuvered their clothes back on somewhat and helped the man to the infirmary.

"Not a wor," Gokudera hissed.

"Of course," Yamamoto quietly answered.

Yamamoto hated waiting because it was one of the things that drove him mad and cross the fine line of sanity.

**Author's Note:**

> I kinda miss these TYL idiots.


End file.
